


It hurts... So much

by wheezing_tardis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1856790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheezing_tardis/pseuds/wheezing_tardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's feelings after Sherlock's jump.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It hurts... So much

**Author's Note:**

> Another random ficlet that I never had the courage to post.  
> This time it's from the Reichenbach feels I had after you-know-what.  
> I know that it's really late and that we're already in hiatus for season 4 *yay* and OMG Moriarty's back!   
> ...but I don't have anywhere else to put it...

It hurts... so much.   
John kept remembering, and it ripped him open over and over again.   
That bullet in his shoulder, one thousand of those any day, and he would laugh and thank the heavens.   
His psychosomatic leg after a long walk, being punched in the face repeatedly, overrun by a London cab, thrown against a wall and into the Thames river, he would take it all if it meant that he wouldn't have to endure this horrible and excruciating PAIN.  
He was in a place that could be compared to Sherlocks mind palace. Only that it was more like his very own pit in hell.  
All his useless and idiotic self could do was to remember. Every detail of it. Sherlock... falling off the building, arms flailing in the air.   
Sherlock... sprawled on the floor, blood soaking through his dark curls and coloring the black pavement red. He was his only friend. Friends protect each other. What did John Watson do in the moment Sherlock needed him the most? He left him. And then he stood there gaping while the most brilliant genius in the entire planet threw himself off a roof. Served him well, his status as a doctor. It felt as though Sherlock had taken something very essential of Johns with him when he died, this kind of thing that you only miss when it is already gone.   
Where his heart should be there was now a black hole, eating up everything inside him.   
The body was just for transport, Sherlock had always said. Then why did it hurt so much?   
Harry had called. Mrs. Hudson tried to make conversation with him every now and then. Even Lestrade phoned telling him that Moriarty was found dead on the rooftop of St. Bart's, everything indicating suicide.  
What a coincidence. Sherlocks arch-enemy kills himself on the day he dies. But John couldn't come up with much empathy for the man.   
Humans, why do they bother so much? Even Moriarty turned out to be human, killing himself when his favorite plaything had gone. Or that's what he assumed happened anyway.  
John was past caring. He developed a rather unhealthy relationship to every moving thing around him. Well it wasn't his fault that everything reminded him of Sherlock. Black hair, blue scarves, blue eyes, eyes at all, black coats, black things in general, skulls, even the living ones. Everything was Sherlock.


End file.
